Heartbreak Warfare
by Michele Marsters
Summary: When Spike was 18, he chose drugs over a relationship with his father. Six years later, his father is dead, and Spike is searching for a way to atone for his sins. Enter his father's wife and two stepdaughters: Dawn and Buffy.
1. Chapter 1

Six years. It had been six years since Spike had seen his father, yet here he was, sitting on a greyhound bus headed for Sunnydale, California. He folded and unfolded the crumpled letter he clutched between his hands, rereading it for the umpteenth time since it had arrived only three days before.

The letter began _Dear William… _in loopy, unfamiliar handwriting. _My name is Joyce Summers. _Spike had searched his mind for a few moments, trying to grasp at old memories locked in the abyss of his mind---old lovers, lost friends, distant relatives all flitted through his memory, when he suddenly remembered why the name sounded so familiar. He was thrust back to a time six years previous; the last time he had seen his father, Rupert Giles. He was 18 at the time, living in a run-down flat in the seedier part of London. He had heard a knock at the door, which was not a shock—people were always coming and going out of that hellhole. The distinctly memorable part was that this particular knock came just before noon. The tweakers and drunks who frequented his old place kept much later hours in general. Still, he had opened the door, expecting to find some desperate addict looking for a fix. When he saw his father, his heart had stopped briefly while he slowly let go of the knife handle which was safely lodged in his back pocket. Better safe than sorry.

"Dad."

"Hello, Will." He shifted uncomfortably and then stepped back from the door.

"Come in." His father nodded, semi-grateful, and stepped into the apartment.

Spike could tell he was actively trying not to insult his son's disgusting living conditions.

"How are you?" Rupert carefully stepped over a pile of trash that lay next to the overflowing wastebasket.

"Fine." Spike folded his arms defensively over his chest, hoping the track marks on his forearms weren't too obvious. As if his father didn't know his only son was an addict.

"I've come to tell you I'm moving to the States…"

"Yeah?" Spike raised an eyebrow, impressed. Rupert had talked dreamily of leaving London for sunnier skies since he was a child. His mother, God rest her soul, had hated the idea. She even hated their yearly vacations to Majorca. London was in her blood, she had claimed.

"I'm getting married, Will." Rupert flashed a smile. Spike felt a dull ache throb in the pit of his stomach. It had been years since his father had smiled in such a way, and rather than causing him joy, it made him enraged. He couldn't imagine grasping such happiness. Ever. Rupert seemed to sense Spike's unwillingness to talk as he moved toward the plaid couch, riddled with tears and cigarette burns. He perched on the edge of it, as if trying to touch as little of the filthy surface as possible. "Her name is Joyce Summers. I met her while on a business trip to Los Angeles last year. She has two children." Rupert fished out his wallet and pulled out a family photo. Spike peered down at the three smiling faces. Joyce Summers sat in the middle of a grassy field, two children flanking either side. A little brunette girl, who looked about 6, had her hand perched on Joyce's knee. Another girl, who was a bit older, 11 or 12 , rested her head on her mother's shoulder, a beaming smile on her face.

"Looks nice." Spike handed Rupert the picture and watched the smile on his face begin to falter.

"I want you to come with me, Spike. " Rupert stood suddenly, wiping his hands on his black trousers, as if filled with a burst of energy. Spike chuckled at his father's attempt to use his nickname. It sounded foreign on his tongue. Rupert had refused to use the name, though Spike had answered primarily to it since he was fifteen.

"I haven't seen you in nearly six months and now you expect me to pack up and move across the pond with you?" He leaned over the coffee table and cleared a dirty needle from its resting spot. The light coming in through the half-closed blinds caught the shiny metal and Rupert's eyes rested on it.

"I didn't ask for it to be this way." His father's eyes fell to the floor as his forehead wrinkled. "You know that."

"Right." Spike was becoming agitated. He pulled a cigarette out from his front pocket and lit it.

"There's only one thing I ask of you."

"I knew it couldn't be this easy." He let out a puff of smoke.

"There's a program near Joyce's home. It comes highly recommended for…people like you."

"People like me? Just say it, dad. Drug. Addict."

"I will pay for you, Will. Just say you'll commit to six months and you can come with me."

"Fine." Spike could feel his skin crawling. It had been nearly two hours since his last fix. It seemed like the highs got shorter each day…especially when he was hard up for cash and was forced to buy the shit stuff.

"Really?" Rupert's eyes had fastened on his son's face, looking as if he was about to cry.

"I said fine, Dad." Rupert leaned forward and gave him a one-armed hug. It wasn't much, but it was apparent that Rupert was overjoyed. This was much more than his usual clap on the shoulder when it came to affection.

"Stop…" Spike moaned. His forehead was becoming drenched in a cold sweat. He licked his lips furiously, thinking about the baggie stashed in his underwear drawer. If only Rupert would just go…

"I've got to tell Joyce the news. She'll be ecstatic."

"Yeah. Great."

As soon as his father had left, Spike had rushed into his bedroom. As he'd inserted the syringe into his forearm, and watched the liquid rush into his vein, he'd let his head fall back into the wall. He was going to California. This would be the last time he'd shoot up.

But it was the last time he saw his father.

Spike refolded the note and stuffed it into his jean pocket. There was no use in rereading, hoping for a different ending. The letter always said the same thing.

Rupert Giles was dead.

The sunlight filtered in through Buffy's picture windows as she sat motionless on the edge of her bed. Her hands were gripped tightly to the bright purple comforter, her eyes focused on the street in front of her home. A little boy on a tricycle rolled by, his mother and father walking briskly behind him, gleaming smiles pasted on their faces. She wanted to scream out the window that they had no right to be happy. They had no right to smile. For all she cared, the sun had no right to shine right now. It was simply making a mockery of the throb within her chest.

"Honey?" Her mother was leaning in her doorframe, a long black dress hanging loosely on her body. Buffy turned her tear-filled eyes to meet her mother's. "You almost ready to go?"

"I guess." She smoothed out her lacy black skirt. No one tells you that shopping for a funeral is one of the hardest things you have to do. She'd agonized for hours, trying to find the perfect outfit….then she'd realized her dad wouldn't get to see it. She'd crouched inside a dressing room at Macy's and cried her heart out, until a saleswoman came to check on her.

"You look beautiful." Joyce smiled thinly at her daughter. Buffy knew she was lying, but she smiled anyway.

"Thanks, mom. You do too." It was true. Joyce Summers had a permanent rosy glow about her, one that couldn't be dampened by even the most acute of pains.

"Come on, let's go get your sister." Joyce stuck out her arms and Buffy stood, allowing her mother to envelope her in a warm, comforting hug. "Things are going to be okay, Buffy."

Buffy didn't speak at the service. She had wanted to, but she couldn't think of what to say. She had loved her father (step-father as she hated to be reminded). He had glued their family together---had made her mother sing in the kitchen again. He'd taught her little sister, Dawn, how to swim. He'd come to every single one of her ballet recitals. He'd taken the family camping every July 4th. She'd always burned her marshmallows over the fire, and Giles would let her eat his without complaint. When her dog, Honey, had died, Giles held a funeral service. He spent twenty-minutes lavishing thoughtful praise on the deceased pup. How could she possibly speak if her words weren't enough to top the ones spoken at a funeral for a Pomeranian?

Instead, she had sat at the front, clutching a beloved photo of she and her father, and cried. She cried when her mother told the crowd how she and Rupert had met. Joyce had been Los Angeles for work when she'd realized her wallet had been stolen when trying to buy lunch at a small eatery. The man at the next table had paid for her meal. He was visiting on business from London, and they'd sat at her table for three hours talking. He was a historian; she worked at an art gallery. They enjoyed reading, loathed computers, and had witty senses of humor. They were married eleven months later.

Her little sister, only twelve, had composed a song on the guitar. The chords were choppy and her voice was hoarse, but the entire room had cried.

Long after the service ended, Buffy remained in her seat . She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She had watched his casket be carried from the church, but she still felt as if her father's spirit was tied to this place. She slumped down in front of the pew, tucking her knees to her chest, and pressed her forehead to her knees.

She could hear footsteps coming up the aisle, slow and steady, and she lifted her head to see who it was. Perhaps it was Dawn, coming to drag her home.

A young man, in his mid-twenties, had walked to the front of the church. He was now standing in front of the table that housed memories of Rupert Giles. She watched his shoulders sag as he knelt closer to examine the photos. One framed photo showed Giles, proudly displaying a newly caught fish. The next was from one of their yearly camping trips. He'd let a then-fifteen year old Buffy ride on the back of his motorcycle. Joyce had captured them riding around, Buffy's arm clutched tightly around his waist.

Suddenly the man crumpled. His whole body folded in on itself as he began to cry---loudly. He ran his hands through his hair, gasping breaths escaping his mouth. From her unnoticed position, Buffy could see tears splashing onto the hardwood floor. She stood up.

"Excuse me…" His hands fell from his hair. He didn't move for a moment, though he became deadly quiet. Finally, he stood and straightened. As if by magic, Buffy could see the desperation on his face harden. "I'm sorry…" she mumbled, wondering who this man was, sobbing over her beloved father.

"Who are you?" He asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.

"I'm Buffy. Giles was…is my father." She stuck out a hand and he stared at it as if she had just offered him a poisoned apple.

"Looks like we have something in common." He ran his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, which was just long enough to touch his ears. His face was covered in a scruff, as if he had not shaved for at least a week.

"What?" Buffy let her outstretched hand fall to her side.

"I'm Spike Giles." Buffy felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. THE Spike Giles? The son who had broken her father's heart? She didn't know very much about him…she'd never even seen a photo, but William (as Giles had called him) had always been a sore spot for Rupert. "I suppose you've grown up, haven't you?" Spike recognized the girl in front of him-- the gray-blue eyes that stared up at him were the same as the little girl he'd seen in that photograph six years ago.

"I should get my mom." Buffy swallowed hard.

"You don't have to do that. I just…wanted to pay my respects, you know?" He shrugged and turned to leave. A large part of Buffy wanted to watch him walk out of the church. She almost did, but then she stared up into his pale blue eyes and saw her dad. For a moment, she wanted to stare into them forever, as if a piece of her father still resided inside this man. Instead, she stuck out a hand, gripped his shoulder gently, and tried to create some semblance of a smile.

"Let me get my mom, please." She looked up at him, long and hard. He remained silent for a moment, and then nodded, defeated.

Spike sat down in a pew as he watched Buffy's retreating back. He couldn't quite reconcile his idea of his father with the man represented during this funeral. His father had always loved him, but he was married to his work. Spike's childhood was spent with nannies, his only true father-son bonding coming on holidays. Yet here he was, looking at photos of Rupert fishing and riding motorcycles. This wasn't the stuffy, disciplined man who had raised him. This was a family man. The kind of dad Spike had always wished for. It was even stranger to see an entire world mourning for his father---an entire world he had never even been part of.

But that was his fault, wasn't it?

"Oh my goodness." Spike turned around to see Buffy coming back up the aisle, her mother and a young girl beside her. Joyce's pallor had brightened to a flushed red, and she was fanning herself. "I can't believe you came, William. "

"Yeah..." Spike stood and shifted his weight nervously. Joyce launched forward and bear-hugged him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"You look just like your father." She mumbled into his chest.

"Lucky me, right?" Spike deadpanned. Joyce pulled away and wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry. It's…it's like having him here with me."

"I hate to disappoint you, but we have very little in common." Spike shrugged, embarrassed. He hadn't come to sit around a fire and play koom by ya with these people. He'd just wanted to say goodbye to his father, go back to London, and get on with his life.

"Nonsense." She smiled warmly and touched his cheek, a gesture that made Spike recoil. He wasn't used to being touched---not lovingly, at least. "I'm being rude, aren't I? This is Dawn." She gestured toward a tall preteen girl with straight brown hair and wide blue eyes.

"Hi." Dawn said and smiled shyly up at Spike.

"I suppose you've already met my other daughter." Spike nodded. "Will you come over for dinner tonight, William? I know you're probably itching to get back to London….but I'm sure the kids would love it."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Well, I don't want to force you." She focused her eyes up at him and Spike felt his resolve crumble.

"All right, all right. Dinner." Joyce clasped her hands together and gave him a half-smile.

"Wonderful." They began walking from the church, Spike trailing just behind Dawn. Spike smirked….he could barely imagine Rupert Giles parenting a pre-teen girl. He tapped Dawn on the shoulder.

"You're pretty good on that guitar, kid." Dawn turned her head to give Spike a surprised smile.

"Really? My dad just started teaching me about a year ago…" Dawn's voice trailed off, as if she wasn't sure what to say next.

"I started playing at about your age, but I wasn't nearly as good. Slow learner."

"Did your dad teach you?" The way Dawn phrased it made it sound as if the father in question was a different one than she had just mentioned moments earlier. Perhaps he was.

"No….he didn't really have the time, I guess." Dawn didn't say anything to this comment. Instead, she sped up so that she was in line with her sister, who was obviously older, but nearly the same height. Dawn clasped Buffy's hand and squeezed tightly. Spike followed silently until the group reached a red Pontiac GTO hardtop. His mouth dropped in surprise when Joyce opened the driver's side door.

"This is…your…car?" He grinned.

"Yes…well, actually, I was pretty adamant against buying the thing, but Rupert insisted." She rolled her eyes.

"What year is it?"

"Sixty-seven." Dawn piped up as he slid into the backseat. "He let me help him restore it."

"She _means _he let her play Barbies in the backseat while he did all the work." Buffy mumbled.

"Really?" Spike's eyebrows rose. He thought about reminding this family that Rupert Giles was a work-obsessed businessman who spent his free time reading outdated books and drinking coffee, but decided against it. Apparently, Rupert Giles had changed as much as he had over the last six years.

Buffy stared ahead as her mother drove nearly ten-miles below the speed limit. She'd refused to touch the car since the day her father bought it, but now she seemed addicted to driving it, although it terrified her. Buffy couldn't help but smile at the way her mom gripped the steering wheel, with white-knuckled tension.

"Chill out, mom." She smoothed out her black skirt over her knees and checked her face in the mirror. Red? Check. Puffy? Check. Completely and horrendously disgusting? Check. As her eyes roamed over the rearview mirror, they made contact with the near-stranger who was sitting in the backseat, talking animatedly with her little sister. She couldn't help but dislike his presence. Her home was already broken and she didn't like the idea of another person trying to enter it. It was weak, already. Plus, Buffy was pretty sure that her mother hadn't planned on cooking. They'd been subsisting on pizza for the last four days….when they managed to eat, anyway.

"What's for dinner?" Buffy asked. With regret, she noticed her voice sounded strained and angry.

"I was thinking of picking up sushi." Joyce swallowed, and Buffy could tell she was struggling to keep a brave face. She decided not to argue.

"Sounds great."

Joyce pulled the car into the long driveway of their home. They'd moved into the house just after Joyce and Rupert had married. It had been such a blessing for the Summers women. Until then, Dawn and Buffy had been sharing a bedroom in a cramped apartment across town.

"You kids go inside, I'll be right back with dinner." Joyce handed Buffy her house-keys.

"Thank you, Joyce." Spike followed Dawn up the driveway and onto the porch.

"This is a nice house," Spike said to Buffy as she unlocked the front door. "Much bigger than my flat."

"Your what?"

"Ah, apartment." He winked at her and she turned her eyes away. She couldn't stand him trying to be so…friendly.

"I'm going to go change." She spun around and practically bolted up the staircase in the foyer.

"I don't think goldilocks likes that I'm here." Spike said, removing his leather jacket and hanging it on the coat rack near the door.

"She's uptight. Don't take it personally." Dawn smiled childishly, reminding Will that she couldn't possibly be as old she looked, despite her friendly face and height.

"How old are you, Dawn?"

"Twelve. I know I'm tall. The basketball coaches are always trying to recruit me." Dawn wrinkled her nose, as if the very idea of playing a sport disgusted her. Spike laughed. He couldn't imagine this kid being very graceful on the court, even the way she walked was adorably disjointed. "And ballet." Dawn added, looking down at her long, thin legs. "Guess I look the part."

"But music is more your thing?"

"I like to play the piano, too. You know, my dad, he was always so into music." Spike nodded, but in truth…he didn't know. As a child, Spike couldn't remember ever knowing what kind of music his dad had liked. Whenever they were in the car, Rupert had played radio talk shows. Dawn motioned for Spike to follow her into the home. "You want to watch TV?"

"Sure, bit." Dawn had plopped down on the leather couch in the living room and was fiddling with the remote.

""Do you like Hannah Montana?"

"Hannah _what_?"

"Um, only the best show ever." She grinned and held up a DVD case emblazoned with a blonde girl wearing way too many sequins..

"Can't say I've ever seen it." He shifted in his combat boots, realizing his probably should've removed them before treading on the perfectly white carpet.

"Oh My God, you're going to love it!" She squealed.

Buffy came down the winding staircase, her black sweatpants dragging on the carpet. She had attempted to find something to wear, but all she wanted to do was curl up in a pair of soft pajamas and go to bed. Instead, she'd settled on her Sunnydale High School sweatpants, a pink tank top, and a pair of blue fuzzy socks. She could hear loud laughter coming from the living room and the obnoxious sounds of Dawn's favorite show. Of course---she never turned that TV off.

"Are you seriously making him watch that with you?" Buffy sat down on the floor next to the couch and crossed her legs.

"Yeah…and he's loving it." Dawn grinned widely up at her older sister.

"That's…interesting." Buffy studied Spike's face, which was staring intently at the television. His face was set in a bemused expression. Though he bore a remarkable resemblance to her father, she could tell they were nothing alike. Rupert was clean-shaven, with closely cropped hair. He wore button-up shirts and trousers. He wore cologne. Lately, she'd been sneaking into her parents' bedroom and stealing spritzes of it to spray onto her pillow. Sometimes when she was half-asleep, she'd roll over and smell him. It was almost like he was next to her in bed, reading to her from one of the Harry Potter books, like he had when she was younger.

Spike shared Rupert's intense blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and wide smile. But his face was covered in scruff and his slightly curly hair was dyed a bright peroxide blonde. From the way he was smiling at Dawn, she could also see he had dimples.

"Does your mother have dimples?" Her hand nearly flew to her mouth as soon as she said it. She hadn't meant to speak out loud, but now she had, and Spike was looking at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Yes. She did." Buffy couldn't help but notice his slight emphasis on the word 'did'.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just wondering…"

"She died when I was about your age." Spike almost added _that's when I started shooting heroin. _He was glad he didn't, because Joyce came in through the front door at precisely that moment.

"Come on, kids." She looked apologetically at Spike "And William." The three of them ambled over to the kitchen table and sat down.

"I got a little of everything…. California Rolls, Spicy Tuna, Alaskan, Caterpillar…." She was setting little plastic take-out boxes on the table in front of them. "What kind of sushi do you like, Will?"

"Well…I've never actually had it." He was staring down at the food with apprehension.

"I feel terrible. I should have asked before I assumed. It's just so popular with the kids around here…"

"Don't worry about it. I eat whatever's handy." Spike reached out and grabbed one of the rolls with his bare hands.

"Um…you're going to need these." Buffy handed him a pair of chopsticks. Spike grabbed them, perched them between his thumb and forefinger, and attempted to grab a roll. It tumbled onto the table.

"Let me show you." Buffy demonstrated how to hold the chopsticks. Spike tried to imitate, but failed miserably. After a few failed attempts, he got fed-up and stabbed one of the chopsticks through the roll, impaling it.

"There we go." He said proudly. He looked up across the table. Joyce, who hadn't said a word during his lesson, was sitting with her hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Mom?" Dawn dropped her chopsticks. Buffy stared down at her plate, wordless.

"I'm sorry…it's just…" Joyce dropped her hand from her mouth and wiped away the tears that were threatening to fall. "Your father took me out for sushi not long after we met. He did the same exact same thing when he got frustrated. I'd mentioned I loved sushi when we first met, and he'd pretended to be a connoisseur. So here we were, in this fancy Japanese-restaurant in downtown LA, and he was eating like a barbarian."

"You never told us that story, Mom." Buffy smiled sadly.

"We used to have sushi Saturdays when we were younger." Dawn added, looking at Spike.

"That was, until you kids got busy on Saturday nights."

"I wish we hadn't." Buffy added. "I shouldn't have spend so much time cheerleading and with my friends. I should've stuck to sushi Saturdays." The table grew silent and Spike could feel the awkwardness collecting around his presence.

"You're a cheerleader?" He said, attempting to break the foot-thick ice.

"Captain."

"Buffy's going to be a senior this year."

"Don't remind me." Spike looked at Joyce questioningly.

"School starts next week." She smiled and shrugged. "Summer goes too fast, right?"

"Right." All Spike really remembered was getting expelled from his private prep school at the age of 16. He'd been caught stealing from the headmaster's office. Then the administration had searched his bag and found drugs. Lots of drugs.

"So, William…what do you do in London?" Joyce passed him a fresh glass of water…he'd downed his in the first few minutes of dinner.

"I play guitar, mostly. And…it's Spike."

"Yes, your father mentioned that. Forgive me. So…Spike, you're in a band?"

"I was. We split up a couple months ago. I've been working odd jobs since them." It could be pretty difficult getting a good job with a record, he'd wanted to explain.

"How nice." Joyce didn't say this in a demeaning way, like he'd expected. Instead, she actually seemed interested in what he had to say.

"Thank you for dinner, Joyce. I really should get back to my motel."

"Where are you staying?"

"Haven Motel."

"I know where that is….that's in a terrible part of town, Spike."

"All I could afford." He shrugged.

"Why don't you stay here with us? I can make up the guest bedroom."

"I don't think so, but thank you."

"When is your flight?"

"I haven't exactly booked one. But I was planning on going tomorrow morning."

"Well then you must stay here. I can drive you to the airport so you don't have to take a bus."

"Well…." Spike really could use the $45 he'd be saving. "Why not?" Joyce smiled.

"Dawn, can you clear the table? And Buffy….why don't you get Spike some linens and show him the room?"

"Fine." Buffy stood.

"I'm so glad you're staying, Spike. You must be exhausted, anyway." Joyce stood and hugged him tightly, smiling. "Your father would be so happy to have you here." Spike knew Joyce was only trying to be kind, but that very proclamation caused an acute pain right in the center of his chest.

"Come on." Buffy nodded toward him.

"Goodnight." Spike smiled at Joyce and Dawn.

"Goodnight!" They said in unison. Spike followed Buffy out of the kitchen and up a flight of stairs. She stopped at a closet in the hallway and loaded her arms with linens.

"This is your room." She nudged a door to her left open with her shoulder. The spare bedroom was nearly the size of Spike's apartment. Buffy set the linens down on the queen-size bed. "Here's the thermostat. Here's the remote for the TV. The bathroom is further down the hall, on your right."

"Thanks."

"Sure." Buffy shrugged and walked past Spike. She paused in the doorframe and spun around slowly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Why are you here?" She tugged at a strand of wavy blonde hair and focused her eyes intently on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you come here? To California. To his funeral."

"Because he's my father. And he died."

"Why didn't you come before that? It's been six years." She propped a hand on her hip, defiant. He was impressed at the amount of rage her innocent looking face could display.

"It's complicated, pet."

"Don't patronize me. I'm not stupid. You may have everyone else fooled, but not me."

"What are you going on about?" Spike could feel himself growing agitated. He steadied himself on the wall. She narrowed those blue-grey eyes at him.

"If you loved him, you wouldn't have waited for him to drop-dead before coming here." Spike didn't have a chance to respond. She turned back around and slammed the door. He could hear her feet stomping on the hardwood floor as she retreated.

He wasn't sure what he would've said even if she'd given him the chance. Maybe she was right. Perhaps he didn't deserve to be here at all.

Buffy flipped her pillow over, and pressed her cheeks to the cool-side. It was a habit she'd been doing since she was a little girl---something she always did whenever she couldn't sleep. She was prone to insomnia, probably the fault of her overactive brain. It was nearly three in the morning, and she hadn't even gotten a minute of quality shut-eye. Her sleep hadn't been good lately, but she had been able to get enough rest to function. She stared at the angry red letters on her alarm clock and rolled her eyes. She stood, fumbling around in the dark for her door. She wandered quietly through the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

The kitchen light was on. Spike was leaning over the island, devouring a bowl of cereal. He looked up at her.

"Couldn't sleep." He explained, whispering.

"Hmm." She gave him a dismissive look and wandered over to the cabinet. Cereal was her go-to food whenever she felt crummy…it was a habit stolen from Giles, which he had apparently passed onto Spike as well. She rifled through, looking for her favorite---Frosted Flakes. Then she noticed the Tiger-clad box sitting haphazardly next to Spike's left arm. She snatched it away. "You ate all the Frosted Flakes."

"Sorry." Spike shrugged, his mouth full of her much-needed comfort food.

"Whatever. It's fine. It must be genetic."

"Huh?"

"My dad used to eat all the Frosted Flakes, too."

"Well _my_ dad ate Frosties."

"What?" Buffy grabbed a spoon out of the drawer behind her.

"That's what they call them in England." He smiled, still whispering.

"Oh." She leaned over and scooped some of the cereal out of his bowl.

"Hey! That's mine." She shook her head, chewing.

"My house. My cereal."

"Perhaps we should go give it your mum, because last I heard, it was _her _house, wasn't it?"

"Obviously." She took another bite of his cereal, leaning over the island. She noticed that Spike was looking at her strangely, concentrating very hard on the area around her…but not directly her, to be exact. It was then that she realized she was only wearing a oversized tee-shirt…long enough to cover her butt, but not much else. She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. "Look…I know I was rude earlier, but I just don't think you have much of a right to be here."

"I probably don't." Spike stood and walked over to the sink.

"Yeah?"

"Look, pet. My dad and I didn't have the best relationship. I'm sure you and your sister were a miracle for him." As he was saying this, Buffy could sense hardness in his voice, but with his back to her, it was hard to tell. He turned around slowly, his lips set in a thin line. Buffy studied him for a moment. He was almost handsome---that was, if he ditched the dirty hobo look and adopted something more clean-cut. The man looked like he hadn't showered in weeks.

"I…"

"Mmmm…." Both Spike and Buffy turned their heads to see Joyce leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh…Mom…"

"What are you two doing?" Joyce rubbed her eyes and let out a yawn.

"Sorry, Mom. I couldn't sleep." Buffy pointed to the empty Frosted Flakes box. Joyce smiled sleepily.

"Well, you two should probably get back to bed. I don't want you waking your sister up."

"Sorry." They mumbled in unison. She looked at Spike, tempted to crack a smile, but she refrained. They both walked out of the kitchen, and started up the stairs with a sleepy ease.

Buffy slept better than she had in a week.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Thank you all for reading/reviewing. I am so glad that you are enjoying the story thus far. I did want to remind everyone that this story is R on this site---but there will be an alternate version with the full NC-17 rating. I will let you know when those parts are available (right now, nothing NC-17 has happened so there is no need to see the alternate version). Let me know what you think!

Spike watched bustling people as Joyce stood with him in line at LAX. He'd lingered long enough to say goodbye to the little bit, who was up at the crack of dawn. Buffy hadn't risen by 9am, so he'd taken Joyce's offer of a ride without a word to the older girl. He didn't really find it necessary to say goodbye, anyway. She hadn't exactly taken to him and he wasn't entirely fond of her, either.

"I'm glad you came, Spike." Joyce's voice was tired, suffering from an entire day of putting on a brave face.

"Me too." He lifted his steaming Starbucks cup in the air. "Thank you for the drink."

"Who knew a 24-year old would prefer hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and little marshmallows?" She smiled.

"I can't believe they don't keep those on hand. Shame." He took a drink, the warmth filling his throat. He carried his backpack that he'd picked up at the motel that morning, and looked back at Joyce. He'd said she could drop him off at the curb, but she insisted on making sure he got on a fairly close flight.

"Next!" The woman at the ticket counter yelled. Spike stepped forward.

"I need a one way flight to Heathrow."

"All right, we've got one with some seats left that leaves in about two hours. It stops in Boston."

"I'll take it." He fished around in his pocket and pulled out the cracked leather wallet that held his much-used credit card.

"All right. Business class?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She typed. "That will be $927.53" Spike swallowed. He couldn't even _remember _the last time he'd made a deposit in his account. Randomly playing pubs and cleaning bar bathrooms did not a rich man make. He handed her his card. She swiped it, her smile never leaving her face.

"Hmm." She clicked her tongue. Spike's eyes darted back to Joyce, who was standing a respectful distance away.

"What?" He snapped, somewhat rudely. Patience was not his strongest point.

"Your card has been denied."

"Try this one." He handed her another card, chewing on his lower lip.

"Denied." Spike felt his breath quicken.

"Will—Spike? Is everything okay?" Joyce was right behind him now, her hand on his forearm.

"Um….he felt himself flush, "Mycardsbeendenied."

"Oh, no." She rifled in her purse. "You can pay me back."

"No!" He said, a little too harshly. Spike appreciated the goodwill, but his pride would not allow for the stepmother he'd just met to buy him a flight. He felt like a wanker for not being able to pay as it was.

"Sir, if you're not going to purchase a ticket, you'll need to get out of line." The woman said, firmly. Spike glared at her and swung his backpack back around his shoulder. He kicked his combat-boot clad foot onto the floor.

"Spike, I…" Joyce was looking up at him with concern etched onto her face.

"Joyce, I appreciate the offer, but I can't take your money. I won't be able to pay you back."

"Then at least come home with me."

"What?" He raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"Come back to Sunnydale. We've got the room. You can find a part time job and save up a little money before you head home."

"I…"

"You said yourself that you weren't working a steady job in London, anyway. Technically, you're my stepson. Having you in the house would be a delight." She pleaded up at him.

Spike weighed his options. He could camp out at the airport and pray that he found some magic money---or he could take her offer, get the cash, and then head home as soon as possible. He'd probably have the money in 6 weeks, tops.

"You win."

* * *

"He's _what_?" Buffy looked up at her mother from her spot on the couch. _The Real World _was still blaring from the TV.

"He's staying." Dawn jumped up from her spot in the kitchen.

"Awesome!"

"You can't be serious." She switched off the TV right in the middle of a hot tub make out scene.

"I am. And you better treat him with respect, Buffy. He's your stepbrother and he needs our help." Joyce was acting much like her normal self, now, something Buffy couldn't totally resent.

"He is _not _my stepbrother." She knew it was true, but just because he was loosely tied to her legally didn't make heim family, for Christ's sake.

"He is your dad's son." Joyce said quietly.

"Fine." Buffy switched the television back on and stretched out on the couch, her arms crossed in defiance. Dawn was bounding around the kitchen at lightning speed.

"Spike!" She called, her high-pitched voice reaching a new level of annoying.

"Give him a minute, honey. He's cleaning up." Joyce gestured above her head. Spike was upstairs showering, something she may have _suggested _hastily after her invite. For such a handsome young man, he smelled awful.

"Maybe he can drive me to school!" Dawn suggested, sliding around on the hardwood floor in her kitten-adorned socks.

"Maybe."

"My friends will be _so _jealous."

"Why?" Buffy turned her head and looked at her little sister with confusion.

"Um, he's totally cute _and _cool."

"Ew. He is _not _cute." Dawn stuck her tongue out at Buffy and rolled her eyes. Just then Spike came down the stairs and into the living room. He had shaved his face, revealing a much more handsome man underneath the scruff. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a light blue tee shirt.

"Thanks for the shirt, Joyce." He winked at her and turned, revealing a telltale grease stain on the lower hem of the shirt.

"_Mom_…why is he wearing dad's shirt?" Buffy stood, tears filling her eyes.

"He needed some clothes, Buffy. I didn't see any harm in giving him one to wear." Joyce rubbed her temples, a habit she often did when she was becoming agitated.

"They're _not _his."

"I'm his son." Spike said. His mouth set in a firm line. He was trying to be understanding with this family, but Buffy was being a right brat.

"Oh, is that why you didn't give a shit about him until he died?"

"Language, Buffy!" Joyce hissed.

"Whatever. It's true. He's just some lame ex-guitarist who is trying to hitch a ride on _our _family."

"Don't talk to me like that." Spike's voice had lowered to dark, cool tone, one that almost frightened her. Almost.

"Fine. Don't talk to me _at all._" Buffy pushed past him, her ponytail swinging against his shoulder.

"William…I'm sorry. She's just….she misses her father." Joyce ran a hand through her hair and sighed.

"I understand."

"Still, she shouldn't talk to you like that."

"It's fine." He tried to reassure the woman. In truth, it _wasn't _fine. He'd never been the type to take shit from anyone, especially not a seventeen-year-old cheerleader who barely stood 5 feet tall.

"Spike?" He turned his attention to Dawn, who was quickly becoming his favorite Summers girl.

"Yeah, bit?"

"Want to watch a movie?"

"Sure, but I'm not watching any of that _Sally Sunshine_ bullocks again."

"It's _Hannah Montana." _

"Still not watching it.

"Fine, what do you want to watch?"

"Ever seen _Passions_?"

* * *

Buffy stared intently out the window, until she saw Cordelia Chase's bright red corvette speed into the driveway with a screech. She slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and ran out the door, waving a dismissive hand to her mother, who was sitting in the kitchen with Dawn. She completely ignored Spike, who was sitting on the porch, drinking a mug of hot chocolate (was he five?) and reading the newspaper.

She opened the passenger side door and smiled at her best frenemy.

"Hey Cordy. So…first day of senior year?" She smiled, trying her best to act as excited as a cheerleader should. Cordelia didn't respond. Instead, her eyes were fixated on the house.

"Who. Is. That?" She peered over her dark sunglasses, her eyebrows raised.

"His name is _Spike. _Apparently he's my stepbrother." Buffy rolled her eyes and tightened her ponytail.

"He's _yummy._" Cordelia leaned out the window. "Hey! Spike!" He looked up and she waved him over.

"Yeah?" He leaned into the driver side window.

"Buffy wanted me to meet her stepbrother." Cordelia smiled charmingly. She stuck out her hand. "Cordelia Chase."

"Spike." He shook her hand and winked. She practically melted.

"Great. So nice to meet you."

"Cor, pet." He ambled away, completely ignoring Buffy's presence in the passenger seat.

"Oh. My. God." Cordelia moaned as she rolled up her window. "He is, like, the hottest guy _ever. _Why aren't you all over _that_?"

"Um, he's my stepbrother."

"Still."

"He's not even hot." Buffy added.

"Whatever. It's so like you to totally ignore a hot piece of man like that."

"And it's so like _you _to be desperate over every attractive guy you see."

"So you admit he's hot?"

"No." Buffy slid her sunglasses on and shut her eyes. Sometimes, she _really _hated Cordy.

"I'm coming over tonight, PS." Cordy laughed, inspected her eye makeup in the mirror and pulled out of the driveway.

As she and Cordy entered Sunnydale High, Buffy couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of being back on her own planet. Sitting at home all summer had been awful, especially when she only had time to sit and think about her dad. At school, she had plenty of distractions. She wasn't the most popular girl—Cordy took that honor—but she had her place.

"Buffy!" the familiar deep voice of Angel O'Connell shouted down the hall. She waved at the beefy football player. He'd always been nice to her, even taken to her to a couple of the dances, but she found him a bit dry, to be honest. Cordelia, who was easily swayed by large biceps and a strong jaw, sauntered over to the football players, her eyes locked on Angel. Buffy kept walking.

"Buffy?"

"I'll see you in class!" She waved, her eyes scanning the hallway until she saw the familiar red hair of her _real _best friend, Willow Rosenberg.

"Will!" she called, the nickname falling out of her mouth before she realized it was now totally ruined. "Willow!" she corrected herself.

"Buffy!" She grinned. Buffy noted that her fashion sense hadn't changed over the summer---she was decked out in a pair of overalls and a fuzzy pink sweater.

"Hey." She smiled. Usually, she and Willow hung out all summer, but this year, she'd been kind of a hermit. She was happy to note that Willow didn't seem to hold it against her. In fact, Willow gave her a warm hug.

"I've missed you." She pulled away. "What's with the frowny face?"

"I thought you'd be making with the angry." Buffy admitted, looking down at her scuffed cheerleading sneakers.

"Of course not, Buffy. Xander and I have been worried about you."

"Speaking of…" Buffy noticed her other best friend, Xander Harris, practically trotting down the hall.

"The Buffster is back!" He exclaimed, clapping her on the back a little too hard.

"That I am."

"We were really sorry to hear about Giles…" Willow started.

"We wanted to come to the service, but your mom said it was for family only."

"I know you would've come. Thanks, guys." She smiled weakly. To be honest, she didn't want to talk about this at all.

"We should go to class. You coming?" Buffy nodded and walked in between the pair, linking her arms in theirs. They'd been best friends since Kindergarten, and though things changed when they got to high school and were forced to deal with the hierarchy, she always loved them most.

"Cordy told me you started dating Anya." Xander shifted uncomfortably.

"Yeah…about that."

"It's still a sensitive topic." Willow added.

"Why?" Buffy knew that Xander and Cordelia had dated briefly a year ago (something Cordelia kept under wraps), but she didn't see why it mattered. Cordelia had practically slept with half the school since then.

"We're not really dating."

"Oh."

"What Xander means is that Anya used him like a piece of tissue." Willow inserted. Buffy's eyes widened.

"Like….a one night stand?"

"Exactly like that."

"Shouldn't you be happy? Isn't that like every high school guy's fantasy? Sex without the responsibility?"

"Yeah, sure, but aren't _I_ supposed to be the one doing the ditching?"

"Aw, poor Xander got his pride hurt." Buffy punched him playfully on the shoulder.

"He's been a big mopey loser for like three weeks." Willow explained.

"Can't be as bad as my house." Buffy mumbled.

"Splainy?" The three turned into their first period classroom and took some desks near the back of the room.

"Well…I don't know if I ever mentioned it, but my dad had a son. They didn't really talk."

"You might've brought it up."

"He showed up at the funeral. And now he's living at my house. And Cordelia has made it her mission to have hot and sweaty time with him."

"Awkward. Big time." Xander looked at her sympathetically.

"If you ever need a break, you can come to my house." Willow said.

"Thanks, guys. You're the best."

* * *

Spike decided he was very happy that cheerleaders didn't exist at his high school. All the peppy shouting and giggling was almost too much to bear. He was sitting in the Summers' living room, trying to fill out one of about twelve job applications, while Buffy and her dark-haired friend were running around in the backyard. He looked out the window as Buffy was completing a cartwheel. Her friend jumped up and down and clapped incessantly. He let his forehead drop onto the table. The minute he made the money, he was out this place. Dawn and Joyce were nice, sure, but he wasn't cut out for family life. Scraping by on bread and gross tap water was fine by him, as long as he was alone while doing it.

The door swung open, the bright sunlight filtering into the kitchen. Buffy and her friend sauntered into the kitchen, depositing their yellow and maroon pom-poms next to him on the kitchen table.

"Hey, Spike!" Buffy's friend (Candy?) said in a voice that he supposed was intended to be sexy.

"Hello, pet." He smiled his world-renowned panty-wetting smile. Okay---perhaps it wasn't _world renowned _but it certainly worked on all the drunk chits he'd encountered.

"What are you doing?" She leaned over, her cleavage spilling out of her cheerleading top. Spike's eyes lingered for a moment—he was man after all—before tearing them away.

"Fillin' out job applications."

"That's, like, _soo _mature of you."

"Mhmm."

"Buffy, can Spike and I have a glass of wine or something?"

"_Wine?_" Buffy was perched on the kitchen counter, her bare legs dangling. "You're seventeen, Cordelia."

"So? Your mom isn't home. I know she keeps a bottle above the fridge."

"Do you even _like _wine?" Buffy hopped off of the counter and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water.

"Totally."

"A wine connoisseur, are you?" Spike wiggled her eyebrows. Buffy joined them at the kitchen table and took a long swig of her water. Cordelia nodded, tracing her fingers along the table right next to Spike's arm. "You a white or red girl?"

"White." Buffy felt her lips curve into a half-smile.

"What's your favorite, love?" Spike was obviously playing with her, and she couldn't deny it was fun to witness. As Cordelia struggled to find a answer, Buffy scribbled something down on a scrap of newspaper and passed it under the table to Cordy. She grabbed it.

"Oh, um, pee-not grij-ee-yo."

"Pinot Grigio?" Spike asked, his eyes on Buffy, glinting with laughter.

"Yeah, I prefer a more modern pronunciation." Buffy giggled. Cordelia didn't miss a beat, did she?

"How very mature of you, pet."

"Thanks." Cordy touched his hand. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around." She got up and spun around, her sneakers squeaking on the kitchen floor. "Let's go, Buffy." Buffy got up to follow her, but before they left the room, she spun around to waggle her eyebrows at Spike. He might've been gross and obnoxious---but _anyone _who would make Cordelia look like a fool without her realizing it deserved some sort of praise.

* * *

Buffy sat in her room, leaning against the edge of her bed. Her mom had called to say she'd be late at the gallery, so she'd ordered Chinese food for everyone. While Spike and Dawn were being all buddy-buddy in the kitchen, she'd resigned herself to the bedroom, where she could eat in silence. She knew she was being a brat, and totally antisocial. Spike wasn't _all _bad---in fact, he'd been pretty hilarious when he'd been teasing Cordelia earlier. Still, she couldn't bring herself to sit and eat dinner with him as if he some sort of place in her home. She set her plate of Sweet and Sour Chicken down on the carpet and looked in the mirror. Her face, devoid of makeup, looked five years older than it normally did. She frowned and pulled off her shell and cheerleading skirt. She grabbed her thin pink robe and tied it over her naked form, before stepping out of the bedroom.

Buffy pressed open the bathroom door, one hand ready to unknot the waist-tie of her robe. That's when she smacked right into the semi-naked body of Spike Giles.

"Oh my God!" She squealed, tugging her robe tight. Spike was standing directly in front of her, freshly showered and holding a white towel around his waist. "Ever heard of locking the door?" She scowled, her eyes lingering on his toned chest and the scars that marred his smooth forearms. Realizing that she was gaping, she covered her eyes with her hands.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Spike said, an amused lilt in his tone. Buffy groaned.

"Can you just leave so I can take a shower in peace?" Spike laughed at the way her tiny hands smushed over her bright red face. The look on her face had been utterly priceless---a mixture of total humiliation and interest.

"Sure, pet." He walked around her, but Buffy could distinctly feel the skin of his bare arm brush against her shoulder.

"Don't call me pet." She said, but she had lost conviction. The words barely come out of her mouth before he had shut the door behind her. She sank to the floor, her heart beating a mile a minute. It wasn't every day that she accidentally walked in on half naked men in her bathroom.

* * *

Spike closed the bedroom door behind him, dropping the white towel onto the ground. As he searched his bag for a clean pair of boxers, he found himself musing on the interaction that had just taken place. Buffy, as he'd noted in the last week, had a way of veering from charmingly sweet to irritatingly self-righteous in just a matter of moments. At times, she almost seemed keen on him. Over the past few evenings, they'd both ended up in the kitchen, eating cereal, on a couple of occasions. In those moments, she seemed much older than her 17-years. During those times, her bitterness seemed to fade just enough that he could handle talking to her. But just when he thought she was going to let him be, she would snap back into acting like a bitch, snapping at him at every possible chance.

As he changed, he couldn't bring himself to stop picturing how adorable she'd looked in the bathroom just minutes before, all wrapped up in her pink robe, her long blonde hair piled on top of her head, her entire body flushed red in embarrassment. He couldn't deny that she was attractive. It was a constant battle in his head. Though he'd never known her as a child, she was still raised by _his _father. On top of that, she was only seventeen. Still, though he had tried not to notice her petite figure and wide smile as she pranced around in her cheerleading uniform that afternoon, he _had. _

As Spike heard the shower turn on, he lowered his head. He was a _bad, bad man._ She was probably in there, thinking about how much she hated him, and here he was, acting like a hormonal teenager. It had simply been too long, he justified. Back in London, he'd had an array of women. He didn't particularly _like_ any of them, but they did provide much needed entertainment and distraction. He'd only been in love once, but she was gone, just like everyone else he'd ever taken his time to care for.

* * *

The water rushed over Buffy's head, soaking her blonde hair so that it stuck to her shoulders in a long sheet. She was fuming. Spike was _ruining _her life. So what if he had a sort of good body? She pictured his muscled abdominals and toned shoulders, then shook her head. Those things meant nothing. Sometimes, it was easy to forget everything and pretend that he was just this funny, older guy staying at her house. But as soon as she started to enjoy his company, she'd remember what he really was. He was the man who had hurt her father. Dawn was too young to understand, she knew. But Buffy had noticed the way Giles' eyes would darken slightly whenever he mentioned William. Sometimes, just the mention of the word _son _was enough to dampen his smile. She didn't know what Spike had done, exactly, to hurt Giles so bad, but she didn't really care. If Spike had cared for his father before now, he would've come to patch things up, surely.

She leaned back into the wall of the shower and remembered the scars that had peppered his forearms. _What _were they? He'd been in short sleeves around her before, but she'd never paid particular attention. Now, all she could seem to think about were the angry red circle and what they could possibly mean.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks. He'd been here fourteen day and he was still biding his time, unable to make any headway into getting a job. Spike closed the door gently behind him and kicked his combat boots off. It had been his sixth job interview and….. _nothing. _He hadn't expected much from this interview at a local diner. After all, he couldn't cook, he wasn't particularly friendly, and his interview skills were worse than Miss Teen South Carolina. Fuming, he stomped into the foyer, relieved to have the house to himself. Dawn and Buffy were at school and Joyce was likely at the gallery again. Oftentimes, he found himself strategically planning to be alone in the house, so he could borrow Dawn's guitar and sit down with a six-pack, without Joyce's disapproving glare or Buffy's "alcoholic" comments.

Spike removed his leather duster (he realized now that it probably didn't help his job prospects) and hung it on the coat rack. As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that the first room on the left—Joyce's---was wide open. It was usually firmly shut, and though his curiosity was piqued, he had never dared look inside before. Of course, his interest had nothing to do with Joyce, it had everything to do with the fact that his father (or the man pretending to be his father, at least) had lived there. Perhaps there would be some grand sign explaining his sudden change in personality. He rested his hand on the doorframe, imagining what his father would've looked like standing in the room. Sure enough, it was a room that suited his father, save for a few items. A large, antique bookcase stood in one corner, shelving volumes that looked near extinction. Historic art pieces hung around the room---probably something Joyce had brought home from the gallery. Several black and white photos of Rupert and his car were hanging next to the armoire. However, one familiar item caught Spike's wandering eye. In the far corner sat a roll-top desk, the exact one his father had treasured back in London. He walked toward it and placed a hand on the top, pressing it upward. It didn't budge. Spike wasn't surprised; his father had always kept his personal belongings under lock and key. He felt around underneath the desk, smiling briefly as he felt the familiar bulge of duct-tape that held the key firmly to the underside. So, Rupert hadn't changed as much as he thought, had he?

Spike unlocked the first drawer and pulled it out. The entire drawer was filled with a mass of newspaper clippings. Spike gingerly picked one up, examining it.

** Local Music News: **_Vampire, _a popular local band, played their third sold-out show in London last night. Lead singer, Wesley Wyndam-Price (previously the singer from the now defunct metal band, _Watcher_), wowed the crowd with his raw vocals, while new guitarist Spike Gilesmanaged to keep up with his more-experienced band mates. We expect to see _Vampire _lighting up the stage many more times in the new few weeks.

Spike continued to rifle through the clippings. Every single one—nearly 20—were clippings from the local music weekly that was distributed every weekend in London. Every single one mentioned him. He couldn't fathom _how _his father had gotten his hands on these clippings or why he'd saved them all these years. It was one clipping, in particular, the made Spike suddenly ignore this odd change of events. It was a photo of him with his band mates---certainly nothing too different from the previous clippings. However, in this photo, they were standing in front of a large brick building a mossy hill. They'd played a benefit concert there, just a month before they'd disbanded. It was a place Spike knew well, and not a place he wanted to remember.

The Hilltop Clinic was the rehabilitation facility he'd spent 5 months at when he was 20 years old. He'd spent three days in jail before he ended up there, arrested on an intent to distribute heroin charge. When he learned that bail was set at £35,000, he'd been sure that he'd be stuck behind bars until his court date. Without money to fund a good attorney, he'd probably end up there anyway. However, bail had been posted. He remembered that day clear as glass.

_ Spike waved down the taxi as the rain poured furiously down on him. He was only wearing his white tee shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. At discharge, he hadn't been given anything more to wear, even though the weather had drastically changed in the last few days. They hadn't even told him who posted bail for him---but he'd known exactly where to go. As he hopped into the cab, he passed the driver a crumpled wad of bills—all he'd been able to scrounge from his pockets pre-arrest—and hurriedly told him the address. _

_ The cab pulled up in front of the old house, covered in ivy with lace curtains. It was a place he knew well, one he'd spent much of his time at over the last 2 years. He knocked on the door. Drusilla opened the door, dressed in a lacy white nightgown, her long dark hair tumbling down her back. She was also wearing his leather duster, though it dwarfed her fragile frame. _

_ "Spike…" She smelled of cigarettes and lilac._

_ "Dru, baby…" He leaned up against the doorframe. "You posted my bail, didn't you?" She looked at him wide eyed for a moment, then smiled wickedly. _

_ "Of course I did, my love. The voices whispered that you needed me." Spike grabbed her hand, long used to the oft-dizzying ramblings that came from her mind. Everyone knew that Dru was a little…off-base…but he didn't mind. At first, his attraction to her had been purely physical. After all, "crazy in the head, crazy in the bed." But he'd fallen for her. She was his princess. She'd loved him, even when no one else had. _

_ "Thank you. I'll pay you back." He leaned in and grabbed her gently by the back of the head. _

_ "I know you will, my Spike." She kissed him, fiercely, and then tugged him into the room. They made love by her fireplace, barely bothering to remove their clothes. _

Spike had kept his promise. As he stared down at the picture in his hands, he remembered the horrible jobs, the late night hours, everything he'd done to raise back Dru's money. She'd paid for his rehabilitation treatment at Hilltop, and knowing that he had to make back her money was the only thing that kept him from relapsing. It wasn't until he got the job as a guitarist that he started bringing in real money. The band was local, so it wasn't exactly lucrative, but he made connections and was able to work three jobs for three years in order to pay her back every cent. It had left him broke---in more ways than one. Only a few days after he'd given her the money, she'd left. He hadn't heard from her since. It was only 6 months later that he received the letter from Joyce. That was probably why he'd come without much hesitation---there was nothing in London for him anymore.

Someone cleared her throat. Spike spun around to see Buffy standing in the doorway, eyeing him suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" Spike noticed that her eyes look red and swollen.

"Nothing. What are you doing here?" He shoved everything back in the drawer and closed it.

"I left school. No big. Are you trying to steal from us or something?" She was looking at him with daggers, her hands perched on her waist. It was a stance she'd perfected, though it was more adorable than frightening.

"Don't be stupid, pet. I was just looking around."

"At _my_ dad's stuff?" She pointed at the framed family photo that hung above the bed, as if to prove that she had more claim over Rupert Giles than he.

"You think you're so much better than me, don't you?" Spike stalked up to her. She didn't answer. "Go on, say it."

"I didn't say that." Her hands dropped to her side. This close up, Spike could easily confirm that she'd been crying over something. He took a few steps back, and she spoke. "What were you doing?"

"Looking at his desk." Spike shrugged.

"How did you get in?" Her eyebrows rose, impressed.

"Unlocked it." He held up the key that was still firmly clutched in his fist.

"Can I look?" He nodded. She reached for the drawer he'd been rifling through.

"Already looked through that one. Just paperwork." She accepted the answer and unlocked the drawer below it. Inside, there were cases upon cases of DVDs. "Great, his porn stash." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Don't be disgusting." She opened the first case. "Curious?" She waltzed over to the television across the room and put it into the player.

On the screen, a small boy with puffy brown hair and glasses sat on the floor, a thick book clutched in his hand. A blonde woman, her hair in a neat bun, crouched next to him.

"Say you love daddy!" The woman cooed, running her fingers through the boy's curls.

"I love daddy!" The toddler giggled, his chubby cheeks rosy. Buffy paused the video.

"Who is that?" She glanced over at Spike, and noted his stunned face. "Wait….is that _you_? No!"

"That's me and my mum." Spike turned the TV off. "That's enough for now."

"But…you were so cute!" Buffy exclaimed.

"I still am."

"Right. You wish," she rolled her eyes, then paused when she noticed the pained look on Spike's face. "Are you okay?"

"''m fine, love." He removed the DVD from the player and slipped it back into his case. His eyes went from the case to the desk behind him. A part of him was touched by his father's collection of Spike-related items. Another part of him was enraged---if he had cared _so _much, why didn't he find a way to fix things? Spike knew it was unfair to think that way. Their estrangement was his fault after all. He'd pushed and pushed until Rupert had finally given up.

"You don't look fine."

"Brilliant observation, pet."

"I'm _trying _to be nice," Buffy spun on her heel, "and how many times do I have to tell you not to call me pet?" She began to walk away, but Spike caught her buy the elbow. "_What?_"

"Wait. 'm sorry. I'm an ass." He held up his palms in defeat.

"Yup."

"Why did you come home from school, love?" He backed up and sat down on the edge of Joyce's bed.

"I…" Buffy studied him for a moment. She pulled out a crumbled wad of notebook paper from her pocket and handed it to him. He smoothed it out. It was some sort of English assignment, covered in red pen.

"You….failed English?" He guessed.

"I found it in my notebook. It's an old assignment from last year."

"Still not followin',"

"Giles helped me." She sat down next to him and pointed at the red marks all over the page. "He _always _edited my papers." Spike's first reaction was shock, because the Rupert Giles _he _knew was far too busy to help with homework. Then he noticed the tears quickly collected in Buffy's blue-green eyes and he tossed that thought out the window.

"Pet…." He awkwardly placed a hand on her back and patted it gently.

"Don't call me that." She didn't say it angrily. In fact, through her tears, she was half-laughing, half-sobbing.

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

They sat there for another half an hour without speaking a word.

* * *

Buffy watched as her mother spooned generous helpings of spaghetti onto her plate. Joyce had come home early from the gallery that evening. She guessed that her mother felt guilty for all the late nights she'd been working since the funeral. She couldn't blame her mother for it---throwing herself into her work was her only way of coping. In all honesty, Buffy was handling things similarly. She'd been seriously overdoing her captaining duties on the cheerleading team. She'd been little Miss Social Butterfly every weekend. In fact, she'd even been studying late at night when she couldn't sleep. It was a new development for Buffy, but it kept her from going crazy with grief.

"I have some news." Joyce smiled, the candlelight casting a pretty glow across her features. Buffy had always thought her mother was beautiful. She could understand why Giles had fallen in love with her so quickly.

"Do tell, Joyce." Spike took a sip of his beer. Though Spike was well above legal drinking age, it had been quite the argument in order for Joyce to allow him to drink in this house. She couldn't seem to accept his age after all the years of hearing about Giles "little son".

"I'm going to go meet up with a potential artist this weekend. I may be able to acquire some great pieces for the gallery. He's very promising."

"That's great, mom." Buffy took a bite of her dinner.

"Cool." Dawn said, unenthusiastically. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that she wasn't very interested in the nature of her mother's job.

"He lives in New York. Pat, from the gallery, thought we could go together and do a bit of a spa weekend between work."

"Does that mean I can sleep over at Janice's?"

"Well, Dawnie, I told your father that you and Buffy would come stay with him for the weekend. I was hoping Spike would watch the house."

"Mom!" Buffy and Dawn said in unison.

"I am _not _staying with Hank." Buffy said. She had refused to call Hank her father long before Giles ever came into the picture. However, his presence had cemented that idea in her head that Hank was nothing more than a sperm donor. He'd never done anything but disappoint all three Summers women.

"I thought it would be nice for you girls…" Joyce trailed off. She knew she was fighting a losing battle.

"He didn't even bother to call after our _real _father died, mom. What makes you think he's so capable now?"

"I'm not going!" Dawn screeched, balling her fists up.

"Dawnie, calm down…. " Joyce sat down and reached for her youngest daughter's hands.

"No!" Dawn's face was bright red and tears were threatening to spill down her cheeks. Joyce reached forward and tried to hug Dawn, who responded by pushing her away, bursting into tears, and running out of the kitchen. Buffy could hear her door slam a few moments later. Normally, these tantrums irritated her, but this time, she felt slightly jealous that her mother wouldn't tolerate the same reaction from a seventeen year old.

"Mom, can't we just stay here? You said Spike could watch the house. What makes you think Hank won't back out, anyway? We'll probably show up at the house to find he's taken off to Aruba. Like my ninth birthday."

"I'm not going to make him babysit you girls, Buffy. He's looking for a job." Spike sat stunned, but remained silent. Truth be told, he didn't _want _to look after a couple of hormonal chits all weekend. When Joyce had mentioned house sitting, he'd suddenly imagined a weekend where he could finally go out and get knackered, stumbling in a 3am with a lady or two on his arm.

"Dawn could stay at Janice's. I'll stay with Cordelia." Joyce crossed her arms and eyed Buffy for a second before sighing loudly.

"I'll have to call Janice's mother…." Buffy jumped up and squealed.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She hugged her mother tightly. Buffy bounded over to the phone to call Cordelia. While she would've rather spent an entire weekend with Willow, Mrs. Rosenberg would've kept them locked in the house, loaded down with board games and cartoon movies. Cordelia's parents, on the other hand, were pretty non-existent. They never noticed when Cordy and Buffy stole their liquor or stayed out past curfew. On top of that, she'd have an entire weekend without having to listen to Dawn talk non-stop or tip-toe around Spike in the kitchen. She couldn't wait.

* * *

Spike leaned back against the bar and watched the first groups of people filter into the club. It was his first night of his job---one that he was quite pleased to have been hired for. He'd bartended back in London and certainly didn't mind doing it here. On top of that, the money was good. He'd be able to buy a ticket—with some cash to spare—in no time. In was only eleven o'clock on a Friday night, and the crowds were finally starting to pick up. The band, _Dingoes Ate my Baby, _was up on the stage, playing a stereo-blasting rock song. His new boss, Ethan, was scrubbing at the bar absent-mindedly while the other bartender, Clem, was flirting with a group of attractive 30-somethings. Spike grabbed a shot glass from behind the counter and poured a shot of Captain Morgan's. Downing it quickly, he caught the warning look of his new boss. Bartender or not, drinking on his first night probably wasn't the best choice. He shrugged and slid the glass across the bar.

"Want one?"

"Why the hell not?" Ethan poured himself a shot.

"Knew you were a good man." Spike glanced out into the club, where patrons had begun to congregate. His eyes focused on a group of females who were standing by a table, laughing loudly. He settled his gaze on one woman, in particular, who had her back to him. She wore a short black skirt, black boots, and a fitted blue tee shirt. Her long blonde hair was handing loosely down her back. She was dancing to the music, shimmying her hips in a way that mesmerized him.

"California girls…" he mumbled. Suddenly, he was aware that the blonde was standing next to a familiar brunette---Buffy's overly affectionate cheerleader friend, who was dressed in a skintight red dress, sky-high heels, and enough makeup that it looked like she'd raided a counter at the drugstore. The blonde spun around and Spike felt his mouth run dry. Buffy was facing him now, her face made up, enough that she could have easily passed for twenty-five. He hopped over the bar and walked toward her.

"Buffy?" He grabbed her by the shoulder. Her eyes, hazy enough to show she'd been drinking at some point, flashed in recognition.

"Spike? What are you doing here?"

"I _work _here." He pointed toward the bar.

"Since when?"

"Don't try to make conversation. What are you doing here?"

"Dancing. Why do y

* * *

ou care?" She crossed her arms, reminding him that despite the makeup and hair, she was only seventeen.

"You're right. I don't." Spike stalked off, Buffy's friends staring at him in a mixture of attraction and terror. He wasn't sure _why _he cared. She wasn't his responsibility. It was just a bit of a head-spin, that's all. Here he was, trying to do a decent night's work, and Buffy was dancing around like some sort of stripper, making his mind do very _very _bad things. He got back behind the bar and eyed an attractive African-American woman in a leather jacket.

"What's your name, kitten?"

"Nikki."

"Drink on the house, Nikki?"

* * *

"_That's _your stepbrother?" Harmony Kendall eyed Spike as he mixed a drink and flirted with a tall woman in extremely tight jeans.

"Sure is."

"He is _sexy_. Cordy wasn't lying." Harmony reached inside her purse and pulled out the smuggled flask of vodka.

"Give me some of that." Buffy held out her Diet Coke.

"Don't change the topic," Harmony giggled as she dumped a copious amount of liquor into Buffy's drink. "Are you, like, doing him?"

"No!" Buffy took a gulp of her drink. She was already buzzed from the drinks she'd had back at Cordy's place. A few more drinks and this Spike issue would seem much less drastic, she was sure.

"You're crazy." Buffy watched as group of high school boys walked into the club, which was starting to pick up now. The band was now on stage, prepping to start playing.

"Look who's here." Cordelia noted, eyeing the approaching pack of males. Angel, Larry, Scott and a couple of the other football players were sauntering up to the group of girls. Buffy waved at Angel, who was smiling at her. Obviously, he was drunk. Angel wasn't really the smiling type---until he got a few beers in him, of course. This was further proved by the fact that he was wearing his letterman jacket---how did he expect to wear a _high school _jacket and buy drinks?

"Hi Buffy." Angel sidled up to her and put an arm around her waist.

"Hi." She tugged at the hem of her skirt, which was riding dangerously up her thighs. Why had she allowed Cordelia to talk her into this slutty outfit?

"Do you want to dance?"

"Um…." She looked over at Spike, who was leaning on the bar, chatting with a group of women. "Sure." He ran a hand through his hair, perfecting a couple of the drooping spikes, and grabbed her by the wrist.

* * *

"So, after I spent a semester at Julliard, I moved back to California to become an actress," Karen said, her short dark hair bobbing as she spoke. Spike nodded, watching as she traced the edge of her glass.

"Uh-huh." He scanned the bar absentmindedly, hoping someone would be needing a drink so he could have an excuse to finish this mind-numbing conversation.

"I thought Sunnydale would be a better place to center my chi. It's so…. suburban. Which is way grittier than a city, in my opinion. It's downright depressing."

"Right, love." Spike's eyes fell on Buffy, who was out on the dance floor, dancing with a tall, muscular man. She was facing him, her arms around his thick neck, dancing up against him with just enough of a tilt that he knew she was drunk. The man—or she he say boy?—had his hands all over her ass, groping like a drunken prom date. Spike felt his fists tighten as leapt over the bar and made a beeline for the couple.

"What's your problem?" The boy said as Spike yanked Buffy away from him.

"What the hell are you _doing_?" Buffy shrieked, slurring slightly. In one hand, she was gripping a beer.

"What are _you _doing? You're seventeen, Summers, and now you're drunk off your ass and grinding with this ponce."

"What, you're like my dad now? That's twisted." She attempted to shove him, forgetting that she was holding a half empty beer bottle in her hand. The beer spilled down Spike's front, soaking his white tee shirt and the front of his jeans. "Shit."

"You're coming with me."

"No."

"Buffy," he emphasized her name, never having used it before, "I'm taking you home."

"I…"

"If you come, I won't tell your mum." She nodded. She followed behind him as he went to the bar to collect his tips and tell his boss he was leaving for the night. Luckily, it was only an hour before last call and he wouldn't miss much.

As Spike stood outside of the Bronze and called a taxi on the payphone, Buffy slumped against the brick wall.

""All right there?" Spike asked at her off-color complexion.

"Fine." She tugged at her skirt.

"You drink often, pet?" Her face flushed and she cast her eyes down at her shoes.

"That obvious?"

"A little. You screamed rookie from across the bar." He chuckled slightly, and pushed a stray hair off her forehead.

"I probably look like death."

"True."

"Hey!" She slapped his arm playfully.

"That hurt, Summers."

"Wimp." She kicked his boot.

"You tryin' to copy my style?"

"What?" Spike pointed at her black leather boots.

"Oh, totally. You know, 80s Billy Idol Wannabe is totally the trend right now." Just as Spike was contemplating a witty comeback, the taxi pulled up and they climbed in.

* * *

Spike shut the door behind them and whipped off his beer-soaked shirt. "Where's your mum keep the detergent, pet?" Buffy stared blankly at his bare chest for a moment before catching his gaze.

"Oh…um. Laundry room, top shelf, on the left."

"Thanks. You should sit down. I'll get you a water." Spike called as he entered the laundry room. Buffy moved into the living room and kicked off her boots. Taking her seat on the couch, she picked up a _Cosmopolitan _and starting flipping through it. She was halfway through an article on "The 35 **Best **Sex Tips" when Spike reentered the room. She burst into laughter.

"What are you wearing?!" She exclaimed, taking the view in. Spike was clad in a bright yellow tee shirt with the words _Razorbacks _sprawled across the front in maroon. It was one of her old sleep shirts and it was incredibly tight on him. It looked read to split at the seams.

"Hey, _you _were the one who ruined my only clean shirt."

"But…why didn't you just borrow one of Giles'? They're still in the closet upstairs."

"I didn't want to upset you, love." He said quietly, handing her a glass of water and sitting down next to her on the couch.

"Oh." She tucked her hand behind her ears and focused her eyes on the ticking clock above the television.

"Who's the ponce?"

"The _what?"_

"Big guy. Hair that stuck straight up?"

"Angel."

"His _name _is Angel?" Spike sputtered. "Oh, that's rich."

"Says _Spike._" Buffy hiccupped drunkenly and sipped her water.

"Hey…Spike is a hell of a lot manlier than Angel."

"True….and thank you."

"For?"

"For taking me home. I don't know what I was doing."

"Cor, pet." Spike patted her knee and smiled. Buffy let out a giggle.

"Don't do that!"

"What?" His hand was still resting on her knee. He patted it again. She broke into hysterics. "Ah, you're ticklish." He smoothed his palm against her knee, stroking a few inches up her upper thigh. She kicked his hand away and grabbed it, pushing it back with full force. "You're strong for a little thing." He grinned wickedly.

"You're not so bad for a guy with bleached hair."

"Is that so?" She was up on her knees know, her face hovering in front of his, his wrist still clutched in her hand. She leaned forward, her heart thumping at full force, and pressed his lips to his. Spike didn't move for a moment, though to her, it seemed they were frozen like that for ages. Then, as her grip on his wrist fell away, he laced his arms around her waist and pulled her onto to his lap. He kissed her back, fiercely. One hand pressed against her lower back, where the hem of her shirt was riding up. The other slid along the hem of her skirt, where her bare leg was throw over his. She threaded her hands through his hair, the feeling of his kiss making her feel warm and dizzy. Suddenly he pulled away, his eyes hazily attempting to focus on hers.

"I'm sorry." He said suddenly and gently pushed her off of him.

"What?" She touched her lips, swollen with kisses.

"I…you're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk, Spike."

"You don't know what you're saying." She climbed off of his lap and backed away.

"I'm not an invalid. I know what I'm doing." Her face was growing red, her eyes filling with tears.

"But…" he couldn't find the words to express how good it felt. He knew he shouldn't. It was wrong. She was young, and grieving, and drunk. He was taking advantage of her situation. As good as it felt to kiss her and as sweet as she's looked in those moments before, he knew it was wrong. He wasn't _that guy_ anymore. She didn't say anything. She looked him up and down, her face set in anger. And then she stormed out of the room.

He could hear her crying from her room for the next hour.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing. It means SO much to me and I really appreciate it :)

Buffy stared at the illuminated red numbers on her alarm clock as they switched to 7:00 am. She'd been lying in bed without so much as an hour of shut-eye, and had been biding her time, waiting until it was late enough to call Cordelia and beg for a ride. She'd heard Spike go to bed shortly after she'd run out on him. He didn't try to talk to her, though she didn't really expect him to. She grabbed her phone from it's place on the pillow and dialed Cordelia's number.

"What?" Cordelia's voice snapped after seven or eight rings.

"Can you come get me?" Buffy whispered. Her bedroom was not far from Spike's and she _really _didn't want to deal with him this morning.

"Where the hell did you go last night? One minute, you were dancing with Angel and the next you were gone."

"I'm sorry. Spike could tell I was drunk and made me leave."

"Whatever. At least tell me you had sex with him."

"A world of no."

"God, you're such a wet blanket."

"Can you _please _just come get me?"

"Fine. But I've got a horrible hangover and I got, like, three hours of sleep. You owe me a Frap. And lunch."

"Deal."

* * *

Spike rubbed his eyes as the alarm next to him started beeping at 8:30 in the morning. He'd forgotten to shut it off this morning. Honestly, if he'd had it his way, he would sleep until the sun was down. He was a night owl, that's for sure. After Buffy had run out of the room in tears, he'd sulked on the couch with a cigarette and a six-pack. He could hear her wailing for almost an hour, but he'd had to admit he was too chicken to try and comfort a sobbing seventeen year old. When Dru had cried in the past, she'd lock herself in the bathroom where the sounds were magnified, so the sobs would resound through the entire house until Spike's ears and heart were bleeding.

Spike rolled out of bed and pulled his tee-shirt and crumpled jeans on. Probably best not to parade around in a pair of boxers after he'd ravaged his…he stopped the thought before it could come to a head. It wasn't even worth it. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he wandered out of the room and down the hall. Buffy's bedroom was wide open. He peered in, curious. The bed was neatly made, a stuffed pink pig sitting proudly on the throw pillows. He looked over the edge of the balcony, into the foyer. Her shoes, which she'd abandoned at the door the night before, were gone. All traces she'd ever been here had been erased. It was probably for the best.

It was Sunday evening and Spike was standing on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and watching the sun lower beyond the horizon. He had worked another long night on Saturday night, but his tips has been great. He was feeling more optimistic about his situation, although he'd had to spend most of the night dodging his biggest fan: Nikki, who he'd met on Friday. She'd spent three hours at the bar, downing jager bombs and flashing her ample cleavage at him. He'd flirted with the idea of taking her home. He'd even kissed her up against the wall outside of the bar after closing. But when he thought about bringing her into the Summers home, he cringed.

Spike watched an elderly couple walk by, hand in hand. It was the picture perfect suburban town, something so different from anything he'd ever experienced. As a child, he'd lived on an estate, in a big house, with only his nanny to keep him company. Rupert was always on business, or locked up in his office, while his mother entertained guests at all hours. Once his mother died, the house had grown even emptier, and the small things that had once made it feel like a home died away. Her garden shriveled and the smell of cookies was replaced by the sent of Rupert's abundant wine collection. Spike used to sit in his room and drink his father's brandy, as if getting drunk on his father's prized liquor at sixteen was the biggest 'fuck you' he could muster. By the time he was eighteen, he was living in the shithole of a flat in London, where mold grew on the walls and the sound of couples fighting overpowered the constant noise of traffic.

Spike watched as the familiar Pontiac GTO turned onto Revello Drive. Quickly, he tossed his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with the toe of his combat boot. The window rolled down and Joyce stuck her hand out.

"Spike!" She waved. Spike waved back. He could see Dawn in the passenger seat. The pulled into the driveway and Dawn bounded out of the car.

"Spike!" She called. He gave her a high-five.

"How was your weekend, bit?"

"It was _awesome_. Janet got Guitar Hero!"

"I have no bleedin' idea what Guitar Hero is, but I like the sound of it," He laughed.

"Maybe you can come over to Janet's sometime and play it with us. Her mom makes the best peanut butter brownies."

"Only if she makes hot chocolate too."

"With the little marshmallows?" Dawn rolled her eyes. His hot chocolate fetish had become somewhat of a running joke between he and the Summers women.

"How was your weekend, Spike? Any problems?" Joyce came up the driveway, her suitcase in hand. He grabbed it from her and shook his head.

"Nothing of interest." _You know, except I made out with your daughter. _

"New York was fantastic," Spike followed her and Dawn into the house, "Is Buffy here?"

"No. Haven't seen her all weekend."

"I'll give her a call and see if she wants to join us for dinner." Spike leaned awkwardly against the door and Joyce dialed Buffy on her cell phone.

"Hi honey. I just got back and was seeing if you wanted to head home for dinner. What? Oh, yes, Spike is here. Well…okay. If you're sure. See you later on. Love you too." Joyce set her phone back in her bag and shrugged. "She's having too much fun with her friends."

"Ah."

* * *

"Before you take me home, can we stop at Starbucks? I need coffee, stat."

"I don't think you need any caffeine, Buffy. You've been unnaturally bouncy. It's….odd."

"Please, Cordy? The longer I can avoid home, the better."

"Fine. I'm getting ice cream next door anyway."

"Since when do _you _like ice cream? I thought you didn't eat fat. Or carbs. Or calories."

"Since Tasha told me that Larry likes girls with a little meat on their bones. Curvy is _so _the new thin."

"Uh-huh." Cordy pulled her car into the parking lot and parked. Buffy scanned the storefront. There was a huge line at the ice cream shop. "I'll meet you in there after I get my drink."

Buffy took a long sip of her coffee and looked around the Starbucks. She realized it was the first time she'd been there since she and Giles had come here to study a few weeks earlier. She expected the memory to hit her like a knife, but instead, she felt a comforting warmth take over her body. Giles had been trying to help her review her statistics before the semester started, and she'd been completely lost. He'd been cleaning his glasses obsessively and caught Buffy's disapproving eye. They'd burst into laughter, forgotten about her studies, and decided to get ice cream next door.

With a newfound desire to find Cordelia, Buffy wandered outside and into the Dairy Queen. Before she could eye Cordelia, her eyes landed on another sight. Dawn and Spike were sitting in the back of the shop, sharing a giant hot fudge sundae. She watched as Dawn plucked the cherry from the sundae and lobbed it at Spike, who dodged it. The cherry landed on another couple's table, who glared at them disapprovingly. Both Dawn and Spike cracked up. Buffy attempted to blend back into the crowd behind her, when Cordelia spotted her from the front of the line.

"Buffy!" She called. Dawn and Spike turned their heads to see her standing there, clutching her coffee, and looking like a total deer in headlights.

"Hi…" she waved awkwardly. Spike's eyes averted from her, focusing instead on the floor under her flip flops.

"Come sit with us!" Dawn insisted.

"No, no…we have to go anyway."

"Um, no we don't." Cordelia walked over, her ice cream cone in hand. She eyed Spike with more interest than the treat. "Let's join your sister and _stepbrother._"

"We'd be intruding. Looks like you two were having some bonding time."

"Yea-" Spike started. Dawn slapped him on the arm and he shut up. "Sit down, love."

"I…" Buffy's voice trailed off as Cordelia took a seat next to Spike. She leaned down and licked her ice cream suggestively. Buffy cleared her throat and sat down next to Dawn. "Did you have a good weekend, Dawnie?"

"Yeah! Janet and I played Guitar Hero and stayed up until, like, 3am."

"Wild."

"Did you guys have fun?"

"Yeah. We stayed in mostly. Girly stuff, you know." Buffy eyed Spike dangerously, urging him not to say anything.

"Congrats on your new job, Spike." Cordy tickled his wrist and smiled flirtatiously.

"You got a job?" Dawn widened her eyes.

"We ran into him at the Bronze. He's a bartender." Buffy elbowed Cordelia as hard as she could.

"You didn't tell my mom you saw Buffy." Dawn looked up at Spike curiously.

"Slipped my mind. It was only for a second. Aren't you glad I got a job? I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Oh." Dawn looked down, her eyes dark.

"What's the matter, bit?"

"I don't want you to leave." She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. Buffy felt a mix of disgust and jealousy. She couldn't understand why Dawn was so attached to Spike, but at the same time, she wanted to be part of their secret club, too.

"I'll come visit. Maybe you can come to London. We'll go see Big Ben." He patted Dawn gently on the shoulder, who practically launched over the table and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"It's nice to have a brother." She whispered in his ear.

"T-thank you." Spike rubbed her back awkwardly. He'd never had anyone to miss him before.

* * *

Buffy sat down on the steps of the back deck. The weather was beginning to cool down into autumn, but it was still warm enough in California that she was wearing denim shorts, a green halter top, and flip flops. Her empty coffee cup was sitting abandoned next to her, and she fiddled with the sparkly strap on her shoe. She was angry…. angry that Spike had rejected her. She was angry at herself for being an idiot and kissing him, and angry that everyone else seemed so peachy keen with his presence. After she'd come home, Dawn, Spike, and Giles had played Yahtzee while she'd unpacked her things. It was the kind of stuff they used to do, except Giles was there and Spike wasn't. Without her dad, it felt wrong.

Buffy heard the back door open. From the heavy footfalls and smell of smoke, it was easy to tell that it was Spike.

"You're smoking."

"Very observant, pet."

"You never smoke when my mom is home." She hadn't even looked at him yet.

"She's in bed. Same with Dawn."

"Oh." She leaned back on her elbows and stared out into the darkness. Spike didn't say anything for a moment, then joined her on the stairs.

"Your sister won Yahtzee. Firecracker, that one."

"Ah."

"You should've played."

"Stop." Buffy narrowed her eyes at him and plucked a blade of grass from beneath her foot.

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to talk to me. We both know how that turned out last time."

"Pet…" It wasn't often that Spike struggle to find words.

"Just don't." Spike placed a hand on her knee. It was out of character, but he found it fitting for the moment. He stroked a thumb over the bare skin and she shivered. He moved his hand back to own lap and took a drag of his cigarette.

"Everything is going to be okay, Buffy," her name sounded foreign on his tongue. "I'll be out of here soon enough."

"I know." Spike stood and put his cigarette out in the flower pot next to them. "Wait."

"What?"

"You don't have to go inside. I'll go." She began to stand up.

"It's a big deck, love." He grabbed her hand and helped her stand. She folded her arms and looked up at him, her mouth set in a hard, firm line.

"I don't know _what _Cordy sees in you." She smiled, just enough that Spike knew the tension was thinning.

"Are you kidding? I'm a handsome bugger."

"If cheesy eighties throwback is your thing, sure." She grabbed the box of cigarettes from his back pocket and plucked one out.

"What are you doing, love?" She placed the unlit cigarette between her lips.

"'Ello, I'm Spike! Bugger! Wanker! Bloody 'ell! Look at my bleach blonde 'air and big bad boots! It's obvious I'm overcompensating!" She rambled in a cheesy, overdone British accent.

"Your accent is awful, pet. And the only one you're insulting is yourself." She dropped the cigarette to the ground and raised her eyebrows.

"Say what?"

"You're the one who likes kissin' me." He smiled teasingly and she flushed bright red.

"I was drunk. It was gross anyway." She folded her arms and lowered her eyes, focusing on the cracks in the wood beneath her feet.

"Was it, then?"

"Very. Can we _not _talk about that? Perhaps scrub my memory with bleach?" She looked up at him, her green-blue eyes wide.

"Have it your way, pet." He stretched his arms over his head, and the porch light illuminated the scars on his forearm. Buffy's eyes wandered over them and he suddenly yanked his arms down.

"What are those?"

"That's none of your business, Summers."

"Sorry." Spike sighed and touched the skin on his arms protectively.

"I didn't mean to snap. It's just a touchy subject."

"Got it." Buffy eyed him for a moment, focusing her gaze on his angular face, full of frustration. She slumped against the brick of the house and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I miss him," she whispered.

"I do too."

"Can I take you somewhere?" Buffy walked toward Spike and grabbed his elbow gently.

* * *

They stared down at the headstone, silent. Buffy had dragged Spike silently on the mile walk to the Sunnydale Cemetery. They'd barely spoken a word since they arrived, especially once Spike realized where they were. Spike looked down at the pictures that covered the freshly turned dirt. The photographs, faded and curled from recent rain, depicted Buffy and Giles at various ages.

"How did these get here?"

"I put them here." Buffy kneeled and picked up one of the photographs. It was taken at Giles' and Joyce's wedding. They'd looked so happy, and Buffy has insisted on ruining their moment by squeezing in between the bride and groom.

"When?"

"After the funeral. A week ago. Two days ago," she shrugged and shoved her hands in her pockets, "I come here at night sometimes. When I can't sleep."

"Can you tell me about it? How he died? I know the gist of it….but…" Spike trailed off. Out of habit, he grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his Zippo.

"Mom was out of town. Dawn was with a friend. I was at the house with him when he had the heart attack. I tried to help. I called 911, but it was too late. He was gone so fast."

"I didn't know you were there."

"Yeah." Buffy sucked back a rush of tears threatening to fall.

"Heroin."

"What?"

"My arms. The scars. They're from heroin. I was an addict." He lowered a forearm in front of her face. She pressed the pads of her fingertips to the markings.

"Why are you telling me this?" She continued to trace them lightly, mulling his confession in her mind.

"You told me a secret., pet."

"I guess I did." She grabbed his hand in her own and squeezed it tightly. He brushed his thumb over her grip as they stood, transfixed in the moment.


End file.
